


Comfort and Joy

by Le_Rouret, sheraiah



Series: Sarasotaverse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Christmas, Gen, Holidays, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Retirement, Sokovia Accords, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Rouret/pseuds/Le_Rouret, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheraiah/pseuds/sheraiah
Summary: Starting over is always hard. It's even harder when you're starting over in a new state. It's especially hard when you're starting over during the Holidays. And it's damn near impossible when you're starting over with a forgetful, morose, and apathetic Bucky Barnes. Fortunately, Steve Rogers is one of the most pig-headed bastards on the planet, and he would move heaven and earth for Bucky.Unfortunately, he has no idea what he's doing.*COMPLETE*





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheraiah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheraiah/gifts).



> Hello, my lovelies! Here is another peek at the Sarasota Universe, just in time for Christmas. This is the story of how Steve and Bucky made it down to Florida, and the slow and painful journey Steve took, trying to put Bucky back together again. For those of you who haven't read "Bucky, No," this is mildly AU in that it is postulating a universe in which Helmut Zemo never existed.
> 
> It's easy for us to get depressed and lonely during the Christmas season. I'm no different. This was my therapy, and as I found it effective, I thought I'd share it with you.
> 
> Blessed Yule, beloveds. Be well.

**1.**

            Steve knew he had no one to blame but himself.

            He tried sometimes to pass off his decision-making process on the Accords. Or on Tony. Or on the coldest autumn he had ever experienced in New York City, so cold even two serum-enhanced super soldiers had been uncomfortable. Sometimes he even tried to hold Clint culpable, with his “settle down somewhere” and “you’ll find retirement relaxing” and “for God’s sake pick a warm climate, Jesus, I freeze my ass off until April up here.” He picked at old memories, his grandmother pining for a nice house in Palm Beach, postcards from friends who’d gone to visit Miami, brightly-tinted photos of beaches and sunshine and palm trees. Some part of him, not yet beaten down by betrayals and broken trust, whispered of warm, salty breezes and smiling girls in bikinis. He supposed he could blame that, too.

            He never, ever blamed Bucky.

            Logically, he could have, at least a little. Bucky always had been about seventy-five percent of his impulse control, and this, obviously, was an extremely impulsive decision. No agonizing over his choice, no second-guessing himself, no contemplating what it would look like or what the possible consequences would be. He saw the opportunity and decided to take it.

            It was nice, for a change, to be allowed to alter his life’s direction without the constant clamor to be Captain America again. But the one person who was going to be affected most profoundly by his decision had not contributed at all, not even as a dissenter.

            Steve tried not to fidget. It was difficult; the wooden bench in the empty room was narrow and hard. The old courthouse had the heaters going full-blast, and the agency waiting area smelled like propane and dust. A vacant-faced, perfectly coiffed FBI security detail guard stood by the courtroom double doors. There was a television mounted on the wall playing a news show, and an equally vacant-faced and perfectly coiffed news anchor sat smiling at her desk while the banner INITIAL WINTER SOLDIER TRIAL JUDGMENT REVERSED AND REMANDED, JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES CHARGES DISMISSED WITHOUT PREJUDICE. CAPTAIN AMERICA, OTHER AVENGERS OFFICIALLY RETIRE scrolled across the bottom of the screen. She was talking about the Accords. She had been talking about the Accords for the last two hours. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about the Accords.

            Steve was fucking sick of hearing about the Accords. He wanted the final judgment to be over so he could take Bucky and _go_.

            “There is no official word yet on whether the Honorable Justice McBane will accept the defense attorney’s proposal to allow Sgt. Barnes an honorable discharge from the United States Army,” the news anchor smiled. “Controversial Hell’s Kitchen defense attorney Franklin P. Nelson has demanded that, not only should all foreign charges pertaining to the Winter Soldier’s actions while under control by KGB and Hydra agents be dropped and extradition refused, but that consideration for time spent as a POW be taken into account as far as rank, pension, and back pay are determined.”

            Steve stared at the stained and faded linoleum between his brightly polished shoes. He had stared at that same linoleum every day for the past three months. Wherever he and Bucky managed to settle down, house, apartment, boat, hotel room, under a bridge by the interstate somewhere, he refused to allow linoleum anywhere near them.

            “Referencing Public Law 97-37 concerning benefits for former prisoners of war, the defense attorney has been in close communication with the Army’s chief Judge Advocate General to coordinate honorable discharges for not only Sgt. Barnes, but Captain America himself. Citing philosophical and political dissention, Steve Rogers has, along with native Sokovian Wanda Maximoff, Clint “Hawkeye” Barton, and Samuel “Falcon” Wilson, refused to sign the Sokovia Accords … “

            Tony was still pissed at them about that. Rhodey was disappointed. Vision was, not surprisingly, stoically supportive. But Natasha was the worst. She was saddened. Steve could bear Tony’s anger, but Natasha’s hurt and surprised face bothered him. He hated disappointing her. He could say he didn’t have a choice, but … he did.

            His choice.

            Not Bucky’s. Not Clint’s or Sam’s or even Wanda’s. His choice. His own.

            He would always have no one to blame for this but himself.

            The news anchor’s voice faded into a drone. Steve wondered if Nelson had finished his closing remarks. He was demanding a lot of McBane, of the JAG and the World Security Council and SHIELD, but every single petition was backed by legal precedent and reasonable process. He was confident he would be able to give both Bucky and Steve their freedom. Granted, under the tenets of the Accords, the freedom would be limited, and therefore largely an illusion, but Steve was intelligent enough to recognize that freedom and anarchy were only a fence line away from each other, anyway.

            Nelson had already managed to spring Bucky from incarceration, protect him from government agencies wanting to get their hands on him, reverse charges of espionage and political terrorism, grant interrogation by third parties only with his oversight, and allow Steve nearly unlimited access to his old best friend. The odds were pretty good that he’d get everything he asked for from the US Army and the WSC. Justice McBane had a reputation for logic and fair-handedness. What could have taken years, Nelson had accomplished in just over four months.

            During that entire four month-long process, Bucky said only a handful of words to Steve.

            Steve knew he had been questioned at length, by JAG, by a UN committee, by investigators with SHIELD and the WSC, but he had never been allowed to be present at these interrogations. Only Maria Hill had whispered to him in private that Bucky, advised by his ever-present counsel, steadfastly refused to answer any questions. He didn’t remember, he’d said, over and over again. He didn’t remember. He didn’t know. He didn’t know why. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? He didn’t remember. He didn’t know why he didn’t. He just didn’t.

            Nelson had pulled out his ace at that point – documented evidence of the torture Sgt. Barnes had suffered at the hands of Hydra and the KGB, complete with film clips and sepia-tinted photographs. Two jurors had fainted, one had vomited, and even McBane had gone pale. Steve had no idea where Nelson had dug it up, and didn’t care. He was just glad he hadn’t seen it himself. He was angry enough.

            Bucky had spoken to Mr. Nelson when needed, even smiling a little at the young lawyer’s acerbic wit, but for the most part, he kept his head down, his mouth shut, shriveling into himself.  During his hearings, he slumped in his chair, eyes unfocused, staring off into nothingness, hardly aware of what was going on around him. Steve ached for him, bewildered at Bucky’s apathy. He knew no one trusted Bucky, knew no matter where they went or what they did, the stigma of being the Winter Soldier would follow him. The discharge, the change in legal status, his medals and scars, none of that meant a thing in their present world.

            They needed to start over. “Retirement” sounded strange to someone who only thought of himself as a thirty-year-old, but he figured Bucky’s body had felt the turn of the years far more sharply than had Steve’s, and might like the break. A quick search on Google for “common places to retire” had him remembering Florida, which had him click on a list of places for retired people in Florida, which led him to – well, here _._

            The big, creaky doors swung open, letting out the murmur of voices and the staccato rap of a judge’s gavel. Steve jumped to his feet, straightened his uniform jacket, and tucked his cap under his arm. The bailiff gestured him in, and Steve followed him, heart in his mouth.

            It was strange how his footsteps echoed in the courtroom. There was no press this time. After the disastrous first hearing, the media circus hell-bent on demonizing the Winter Soldier, Nelson had petitioned a closed court. So far the only thing that had been “accidentally” leaked was a shaky, dark video clip on YouTube of the Winter Soldier strapped to a chair, screaming around a mouth guard while electricity coursed through his brain. It had gone viral within five minutes, reached a million hits in an hour, and public opinion had been heavily swayed after that.

            Steve wasn’t sure how Nelson always got what he wanted, but he wasn’t complaining.

            The bailiff led him past the bar to the front of the court. The Federal prosecutor nodded politely to him. She had been a fierce opponent, but it had become obvious that the evidence was stacked against her. She’d taken it in stride, her sidelong frowns at Bucky’s gaunt, hollow-eyed face tinged with mercy.

            Bucky was standing next to Nelson, his uniform crisp and neat, his hair slicked back. His shoulders were rounded down, and his head drooped. Steve stood beside Nelson and glanced over at his friend. Bucky’s eyes were on the old, faded linoleum, unblinking, vacant. He might as well have been hundreds of miles away.

            Steve was determined to do just that at the earliest possible moment.

            “Remember,” murmured Nelson in his ear. “Only respond with ‘Yes, your honor.’ Don’t add anything.”

            “All right,” Steve mumbled back.

            “You too, Buck,” Nelson whispered, and Bucky nodded once.

            Justice McBane was a broad-shouldered former JAG, face craggy and pocked from an extensive career overseas. Steve had a deep respect for him, mostly colored by his complete lack of prejudice against Bucky from the moment the Winter Soldier had stepped foot into his courtroom. “Captain Rogers,” he said. “This court has agreed with the defense attorney and his arguments, and has decided to release Sergeant Barnes without a stain on his record. However, due to the current political climate, in particular the Sokovia Accords, it is this court’s wish to take into account past actions by the defendant when he was allegedly known as the Winter Soldier, the documented incidents of torture and other forms of violent coercion that caused him to allegedly commit those actions, and to protect the public and Sgt. Barnes from culpability for future acts by releasing him into the care of an individual capable of watching, regulating, and resolving Sergeant Barnes during his adjustment to civilian life. It is also our understanding that you, an Enhanced Individual registered under the SHIELD Index, have expressed a willingness to accept that function. Is this true, Captain Rogers?”

            “Yes, your honor,” said Steve.

            “Sergeant Barnes, your defense attorney has proven to this court beyond all reasonable doubt that you as the Winter Soldier did act without autonomy or option, suffering physical, mental, and emotional damage at the hands of your captors. The court expresses its sympathy and condolences for the years lost at the hands of the KGB, Hydra, and other foreign agencies involved in your torture as a prisoner of war. However, the court psychiatrists that have evaluated you have expressed concern that the nature of your experiences, coupled with the recent events surrounding your trial, may have exacerbated the diagnosis of Dissociative Psychogenic Fugue State and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, causing a latent instability in your cognitive processes and an altered decision-making ability. Because of this, the court has ruled that you shall remain in the care and custody of Captain Steve Rogers. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, your honor,” said Bucky. His voice was flat and expressionless.

            “Mr. Nelson has accepted on your behalf the full compendium of Index restrictions for you both,” said McBane. He met Steve’s gaze, twinkling brown eyes appraising. “He has informed the court that you have both read and signed the tenets of these restrictions. Is that correct?”

            “Yes, your honor,” said Steve.

            He and Nelson glanced at Bucky, who was staring at a spot a foot and a half above McBane’s head. Nelson nudged him with his elbow. “Yes sir,” said Bucky absently, still staring.

            McBane struck the podium with his gavel. “Then let the record show that, pending official sealed paperwork from the US Army, Captain Steven Grant Rogers will attain to the rank of General with all benefits, pay, and subsidies associated with that rank, and be held responsible for Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, attaining to the rank of Command Sergeant-Major with all benefits, pay, and subsidies associated with that rank, remunerated back to initial dates of service for them both, and that Captain Steven Grant Rogers and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes have accepted retirement from any and all acts of vigilantism under the tenets of the Sokovia Accords, and shall live out their days as private civilian citizens. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is hereby remanded into the care and oversight of Captain Steven Grant Rogers, who will be held responsible for any and all acts of terrorism, dissidence, and/or criminal activity perpetrated by said James Buchanan Barnes, in order to maintain the wellbeing of the communities in which they live.”

            “And may God have mercy on your souls,” smirked Nelson under his breath.

 

❄❅❄

 

            Nelson had demanded – and been issued – secure and sequestered escort out of the courthouse and to their vehicles. Steve appreciated his attempts to maintain some semblance of privacy. “None of anyone’s damn business what you do next,” he said as they shivered on the loading dock by Steve’s car. Bucky was slumped against the side, rubbing his hands slowly together, flesh and metal, his eyes a million miles away. The wind was icy and wet, and smelled of garbage and exhaust. Two FBI security agents guarded the door to the courthouse, carefully ignoring them. “Here’s your package. All papers signed and notarized. I’ll file them with the federal court clerks tomorrow on your behalf.” He opened the folder and pointed. “Debit cards. IDs. Checking account info. Pension portfolio. Recommended military psychiatrist in Sarasota.” He snapped the folder shut and smiled up at Steve, pulling a business card out of his coat pocket. “And finally, another one of my official cards, just in case you forget who I am,” he grinned.

            “Thanks for everything,” said Steve earnestly. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. To us,” he added, glancing at Bucky, who was staring vacantly at the FBI agents. Steve had the unnerving suspicion that Bucky was evaluating how quickly he could take them out. Knowing Bucky, probably less than six seconds.

            “Now, get the hell out of New York,” said Nelson seriously, stepping back to the building. “I’ll handle the media and the rest of the Avengers. Much as I’d love to treat you gents to a bottle of tequila, you’d better split before anyone notices.”

            “We will,” promised Steve, opening the door for Bucky and gently maneuvering him in the passenger’s seat. “Again, Foggy, thanks for everything.”

            “A genuine pleasure,” grinned Nelson. He gave them a mock-salute, snapped his fingers at the agents, and ducked back into the courthouse, his black wool coat and shaggy blond hair tossed in the wind.

 

❄❅❄

 

            Bucky said nothing on their drive down to Sarasota, only grunting on occasion when Steve asked him a direct question. They made the trip in one long run, stopping only for bathroom breaks or to eat at the occasional diner. Out of their uniforms, no one even gave them a glance, though folks did look askance at his companion, dark and shabby and shambling. No one had thought to give Bucky any clothes except the new Army uniform, so he looked like he’d dressed himself out of the reject bin at the Goodwill drop-off, and his recent experience with his fellow men during the hearings left him taciturn and sullen.

            Seventeen hours after they left the courthouse, they rolled into a Sarasota motel on the Gulf.

            “Look, Bucky,” Steve said hopefully. “’Lido Beach Motel.’ That’ll be like the Lido Beach off Long Island. Remember?”

            Bucky didn’t reply.

            “Cold for this time of year,” the check-in clerk said apologetically. Steve was happily astonished that “cold” in November meant fifty degrees. Brooklyn had been seven below when they’d left. Steve checked them in, mindful of the warm, salty, fishy air, the dusty smell of underused heaters, and the dark, empty lobby. The air smelled of the sea, but not how it had smelled in his memories of Rockaway; it was heavy, heady, moist and warm, not cloying but tangy and lingering.

            He got Bucky into the motel room. The wallpaper was horrible, and the cheap polyester covers on the beds worse, but it was clean, and the tiny bathroom sparkled despite the stained sink and leprous mirror. He stowed their meagre belongings in the little closet, then looked around for his best friend.

            Bucky had opened the sliding doors leading onto the harbor and stood at the edge of the little porch, staring out at the sunset over the water. Steve could only see his silhouette against the brilliant darkling sky, but as he watched, his heart hurting for Bucky’s brokenness, he saw, slowly, Bucky’s head come up, his shoulders down; he saw the hands, flesh and metal, unclench. Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell as he inhaled the humid air, and then the breeze stirred his long, unkempt hair away from his face. Bucky was looking up, up at the stars partially obscured by the harbor lights, and the pinched, unhappy expression had fallen away. Instead, Bucky looked bemused, warm, still cautious, but comfortable.

            So, if Steve were going to blame Bucky for their present living arrangements, he actually could. Looking back on that moment, seeing Bucky relax for the first time since 1942, Steve had the hope that he could bring his old Bucky back – that rollicking, jolly, dashing fellow without a care in the world past his next meal and that pretty girl in the polka-dot dress. Sarasota seemed at that moment to hold the promise of reclamation, and as a man who had lost everything, Steve was willing to grasp desperately at it with both hands.

 

 


	2. 2

**2.**

            There had been some confusion between the real estate agent and the Palacios Del Mar Retirement Community’s Homeowner’s Association about Minimum Age Requirements, but ultimately cold cash down, coupled with two decorated nonagenarian veterans, trumped their physical appearance, and within a week, the duplex was theirs.

            Steve stood on the sidewalk, staring up at their new acquisition, the Homeowner’s Association covenants in his hand. The duplex had been vacant for over a year and needed some work, but fortunately its issues were only interior – it already had a new roof, new stucco, new doors and windows. Steve didn’t really want to have to deal with structural issues in November, even though Florida was promising to be a lot warmer than New York. All they’d really need was some paint and spackle and a few plumbing items to make it livable.

            And furniture. Steve kept forgetting about furniture.

            He dug out his phone and shot Clint a quick text.

            **STEVE: We need furniture. I keep hearing about Ikea. Worth it yes/no?**

**CLINT: OH HELL NO**

**CLINT: I mean unless you like meatballs**

**CLINT: REALLY like meatballs**

**CLINT: The meatball-to-hate ratio is pretty low IMO**

This was confusing, but Steve reflected that he didn’t really like meatballs all that much. He’d have to find something else. They couldn’t live in the motel indefinitely; Bucky got so many strange looks in the hallways and lobby that he had taken to simply hiding in the room, only looking out at the harbor when no one was around. Steve knew that was no way to get Bucky better.

            “Can I help you, young man?”

            Startled, Steve turned. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the tiny old lady approach. She couldn’t have been taller than five foot one, and probably weighed about ninety pounds. Her grizzled hair was up in pink foam curlers and she was wearing a ski jacket over her green housecoat and heavy rubber boots. She frowned up at him, her face soft and wrinkled as a prune, but her black eyes stern and suspicious.

            “No, thank you,” said Steve politely. “I’m just trying to figure out where to buy furniture.” He gestured at the duplex. “I’ve never actually owned a home before. My last apartment was furnished.”

            She stared. “You BOUGHT this duplex?” she demanded disbelievingly.

            “Yes, ma’am,” said Steve. He gave her what he hoped was a charming smile, but honestly he never knew what facial expression managed to get him ahead. He’d never been able to beguile people like Bucky had – he was too earnest and serious. Bucky used to have this easy, enchanting charisma that opened more doors to him than was reasonable. Steve knew he could be abrasive, but reflected that it was time to learn how to be ingratiating, especially if he wanted to live here. He held out one hand. “Steve Rogers. I’m your new neighbor.”

            She ignored his hand. “And let me guess. You’re going to rent out this duplex to a bunch of low-lifes who will do nothing but trash up the street and make a big racket. Right?” She jutted out her lower lip pugnaciously.

            “Uh, no, ma’am,” said Steve, mystified. He awkwardly tucked his hand in his pocket. “I’m going to live here myself. My best friend will live on one side and I’ll live on the other.”

            The woman’s frown deepened. “You can’t,” she declared. “You’re too young.”

            Steve’s mouth quirked sideways. “I’m ninety-five, ma’am.”

            “And I’m a howler monkey,” she snapped. She poked him in the chest with one gnarled, pink-tipped finger. “Homeowner’s association minimum age is – “

            “Fifty-five, I know, ma’am,” Steve assured her. “And there are also rules about homeowners renting out properties to people – the renters have to abide by the covenants, too. But I’m not going to rent it out, and Bucky and I are going to live here. He’s ninety-six,” he added, as though that would help.

            She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you,” she said finally. “Ninety-five!”

            Wordlessly, Steve dug out his driver’s license and showed it to her. She put her rhinestone-studded glasses on the tip of her nose, the gold chain attaching them to her neck sparkling a bit, and glowered down at the license.  “Who’d you bribe to get this?” she demanded.

            “No bribe, ma’am,” said Steve. She glared some more, then handed the driver’s license back, studying him carefully. Steve could almost hear the wheels turn in her head.

            “All righty-dighty,” she said slowly. “So you’re what do you call it, elevated people? No, not elevated,” she hesitated, cocking her head like a little hen. “What did the papers call it? Advanced?”

            “Enhanced,” said Steve, feeling his insides clench. If she had followed the news –

            “Enhanced, that’s right,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Well … “ She looked him up and down appraisingly. “At least you’re one of the good-looking ones. No blue skin or crazy hair or tentacles.” She scowled. “Do you have _tentacles_ , young man?”

            “N-no?” stammered Steve.

            She nodded. “Good. Your friend? _Tentacles_?”

            “No, ma’am,” said Steve. “Just a metal arm.”

            She paused, taken aback. “Prosthetic? Lost his arm?”

            “Yes, ma’am,” said Steve. “During combat. We served together.”

            “Oh, _veterans_ ,” she said, and her whole demeanor softened. She held out one little hand. “WAC, First Lieutenant Gracie Alvarado. Da Nang, Vietnam.”

            Steve shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” he grinned.

            “Oh,” she said, waving her hand disdainfully. “I got my discharge before the war even ended. Mrs. Alvarado to you. You and your friend, though,” she said, nodding slowly, and watching him out of the corner of her eye. “I bet you’ve got some stories to tell.”

            Steve winced. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

            “No?” Her eyebrows went up, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, then, I won’t ask,” she stated firmly. She looked up at Steve’s duplex. “So. New homeowners, eh? Get to know your neighbors, that’s my advice. On the left you’ve got Mrs. Bader closest to you. Retired file clerk whose husband ran off with her best friend. Bitter and nasty, but always donates casseroles to the Amity Board. On the right, the Goudelocks. Very nice couple. Vera Goudelock won the Mahjongg tournament last year.”

            “Got it,” smiled Steve.

            “Also,” proclaimed Mrs. Alvarado, “the left side has that nice clean lawn and all those ornamental flowers. Always envied those peach double hibiscus, so pretty. Right side, fruit trees. Some work, but so worth it.” She beamed up at him through her sparkly glasses. “So there you have it. You decide which side you want?”

            “Not yet,” admitted Steve. “The left side is ready to move into, but the right side needs some floor and plumbing work, so we’ll probably both live in the left one to start.”

            “When you moving in?” she asked.

            “We need furniture first,” said Steve. “Neither of us – we don’t have anything. At all.”

            “Hm,” said Mrs. Alvarado. She studied him, eyes careful but kind. Steve wondered if she knew how that felt, to have nothing. “You ever hear of Ikea?”

            “I’m not a big fan of meatballs,” said Steve cautiously, and to his pleased surprise, she laughed.

            “Furniture’s shit, anyway,” she said, waving her little hand. “First you have to put it together, and then it falls apart. Get something solid wood, something substantial and old.” She winked. “Like me.” Steve chuckled, and she added, “There are some good stores around here, and of course, the Goodwill and Salvation Army are full of great deals. I can give you directions. You two boys’ll do fine.”

            _I hope so_ , Steve thought. First order of business would be actually getting Bucky to _move_. Just that morning he had asked Bucky to come with him, at least _look_ at the duplex. “C’mon, Buck,” he’d wheedled. “I keep going there myself, people are gonna think you don’t exist.”

            “I wish I didn’t exist,” Bucky had muttered, staring out at the grey harbor. He was wrapped in the ugly polyester comforter from the bed, curled on the floor. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his eyes baggy and empty, hands clutched together, one flesh, one metal.

            “Don’t say that,” Steve had said, heart tightening with fear. He had lived without Bucky for so long; he didn’t want to do it again, not when he knew he had been given a second chance to pull Bucky back onto the train. “Don’t you even think it.”

            “Can’t help thinking it.” The rustle of polyester against skin, a deep sigh. There was a paper plate with a cold piece of pizza, untouched, from last night. Steve was holding a bag of warm muffins. Bucky would probably not eat them, either. As Steve had watched, Bucky lowered himself to the floor, pulling the ugly comforter over his head. He had whispered, “I’m … just so _tired_.”

            Steve set his jaw, let Mrs. Alvarado’s chatter wash over him. He would get Bucky settled into this duplex come hell or high water. Bucky needed to get better, and right now, this was Steve’s only strategy.

 

 


	3. 3

**3.**

            November wound down. Steve found someone to fix the plumbing on the right side of the duplex, and was searching for a reliable floor person. He kept trying to engage Bucky in the decision-making processes, to no avail.

            “Tile or hardwoods?” he asked over a hamburger at a local diner.

            Bucky was picking at his tuna melt, staring past Steve’s shoulder. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and his hair hung lank and disarranged around his gaunt face. “Hm?” he said.

            Steve shifted uncomfortably. The waitress was already showing a disinclination to refill their drinks, glancing at Bucky as though he’d snap at any moment. If Steve was honest with himself, he couldn’t blame her; Bucky looked brooding and unstable. The fact that he actually _was_ brooding and unstable didn’t help, but Steve really did want more iced tea. “On the right duplex floor,” he said, trying to be patient. “It has tile. But I was thinking hardwoods might be better. There are hardwoods in the left duplex.”

            Bucky looked up at him through his hair. His flesh hand picked up a French fry and swirled it in the ketchup. He was keeping his metal hand hidden in his lap. Steve knew he was aware of the sidelong looks people gave him, and had hoped Bucky would brazen it out, like he had years ago with black eyes or scars, proud of his battle wounds. Instead, he seemed to be crouched in on himself, trying to project as little as possible, stay in the background. It was aggravating to think that he’d be less noticeable if he’d just cut his hair, shave, and wear clothes that didn’t look like he was still homeless, but so far Steve’s attempts to clean him up had not been met with much enthusiasm. “Does it matter?” he asked flatly. He shoved the French fry in his mouth.

            “Of course it matters,” huffed Steve. “I have to tell the workmen _something_. Tile or hardwood?”

            Bucky gave a lazy, one-shoulder shrug. “Whatever you want.”

            “Tile, then,” he snapped. “Someone needs to make some decisions around here.”

            “Mm,” said Bucky. His gaze went out the window, glazed with rain. It was gray and gloomy. Steve so far was pretty disappointed in Florida. “Sunshine State,” like hell.

            Steve finished his hamburger and fries, and flagged the waitress over. She sidled up cautiously, eyeing Bucky, and refilled Steve’s tea. Bucky had hardly touched his. “Buck,” said Steve. “You want dessert?”

            Bucky shrugged again, his eyes on his plate. The waitress said in a small voice: “We have apple pie, chocolate cake – “ Bucky glanced up at her, and she stopped. Something flinched across Bucky’s face, and he turned away, hunching down further into his ratty sweatshirt. “And key lime pie,” she finished quickly, and turned back to Steve with a forced smile.

            “I’ve never had key lime pie,” said Steve conversationally. “It’s a Florida dessert, isn’t it?”

            “I guess so,” said the girl doubtfully. “Sure.”

            “We’ll take two, then,” he smiled. She nodded, glanced at Bucky again who was resolutely staring out the window, and scuttled off.

            Steve sadly watched Bucky pick through his fries, his eyes downcast. He looked marginally better than he had when he’d surrendered himself – he was cleaner, to start; bathing regularly when Steve fussed at him, and having access to a laundromat, had helped. He’d filled in a bit, the half-starved boniness that had characterized his gaunt frame months ago starting to diminish as Steve kept pressing regular meals on him. But the dark circles under his pale eyes had deepened. Steve knew he didn’t sleep most nights, sitting up in a tight ball on the hard hotel mattress, staring out the sliding glass door to the harbor.

            Steve felt lost and discouraged. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t fix his best friend, couldn’t drag him up out of this blackness. Confident cheerfulness didn’t work. Brusque irritability didn’t work. All of Sam’s suggestions of how to draw Bucky out and get him to talk didn’t work. He couldn’t even coax a smile out of him. So far, Florida looked like a bust.

            He wondered if maybe they should try somewhere else. Sam said that some people were affected by the weather and the seasons, and it had done nothing but rain for the past week. Bucky might need more sunshine. God knows none of the medication had even touched him. Day in, day out, the same heavy silences, blank stares, drooping shoulders. Steve didn’t know what to do anymore.

            The waitress returned with the pie. Steve thanked her, and she scooted off insultingly fast, Bucky trying his best to not notice.

            Steve contemplated the key lime pie. He’d heard of it, of course, but it wasn’t exactly a popular dessert in Brooklyn, and he’d never had occasion to try it before.

            “It’s green,” said Bucky.

            Steve looked over at him. He was poking the pie with the tines of his fork, frowning down at it.

            “I think that’s food dye,” said Steve.

            “Green pie,” muttered Bucky. “God, this state is fucking weird.”

            “Just pretend it’s St. Patrick’s Day,” smiled Steve.

            This actually made the corner of Bucky’s mouth twitch up. “Need green beer for that, pal,” he said, his chuckle just a breath of air.

            Steve’s heart constricted a little. Even last night’s double bacon cheeseburger with jalapeños hadn’t interested Bucky this much. He watched Bucky lift a forkful of pie, look at it suspiciously, and tentatively put it in his mouth. He chewed, thoughtful, concentrating. When he swallowed, he tipped his head to one side and contemplated the green pie on his plate.

            “Well?” said Steve.

            “Hm,” said Bucky, and took another bite, a bigger one this time. “Not bad.” He smiled crookedly at Steve around the whipped cream. “For green pie.”

            Steve had to keep his breath from rushing out in a relieved whoosh. He took a bite of the pie. It was pleasantly tangy and velvety, contrasting with the gritty crust. The whipped cream cut through the sour, limey taste. It felt fresh and citrusy on his tongue.

            “Interesting,” he said. “I think I like it.” He cut another bite with the side of his fork.

            “I think I want another piece,” declared Bucky. Steve looked up. Bucky’s plate was clean except for a few graham cracker crumbs and a smear of whipped cream. Bucky was looking around for the waitress, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Want another one, Stevie?”

            Steve smiled and took a bite. Bucky hadn’t called him “Stevie” in … decades. “Sure,” he said, trying not to grin like a maniac. “Why not?” He gestured the waitress over. “You know,” he said hopefully, “the right-side duplex has a lime tree in the front yard.”

            “Yeah?” Bucky looked at him, his eyes focused and intent. “Can I have that side?”

            “Oh, now you’re interested?” asked Steve, smirking at him. To his delight, Bucky grinned back. “Tell you what. Let’s finish our dessert and head over, and you can take a look. You still want the right duplex? I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”

            “Deal,” said Bucky, and politely asked the trembling waitress for two more pieces of pie.

 

 

 


	4. 4

**4.**

            Much to Steve’s disappointment, the floors in the right duplex – now officially Bucky’s side, since they had arm wrestled left-handed – weren’t finished in time for a Thanksgiving move-in. But Bucky had agreed to move temporarily into Steve’s side, so they finally put the Lido Beach Hotel behind them.

            Steve had found a company that would deliver furniture right before the holiday. He’d chosen it out of an online catalog. It had clean lines and light wood, very modern-looking and plain. He liked it – it wasn’t fussy or complicated, and wasn’t overwhelmed by the vaulted ceiling and big windows in his new home. The pull-out couch wasn’t exactly very comfortable, but it was someplace for Bucky to sleep, and he could stow what few clothes he had in the guest room closet. Steve hoped it would encourage Bucky to pick out a bed and dresser for himself. Steve’s bed had a good, firm mattress, and he’d purchased a serviceable set of linens in a plain, neutral color. He figured he’d get pictures for the walls later. Right now, he had other fish to fry.

            Or rather, turkey to roast.

            This was going to be tricky. Steve could handle fairly simple meals, like frying eggs and bacon, or making sandwiches and soups. His culinary expertise topped out at tuna noodle casserole. Bucky had always been the cook between the two of them, unafraid to try something new, poking through cookbooks and their mothers’ recipe cards. But Bucky hadn’t exactly lived a life of domestic bliss the past seventy years, and neither of them had ever attempted a Thanksgiving dinner.

            “Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy,” said Steve, looking down at his list.

            “Green pie?” asked Bucky hopefully. Steve gave him a look.

            “Key lime pie? For Thanksgiving? Shouldn’t it be pumpkin?”

            “Key lime pie is Floridian,” argued Bucky. “We’re Floridians now. Apparently.” He contemplated this. “We could get both,” he suggested with a smile that was almost mischievous.

            Steve hid his grin behind his hand, pretending to look critically down at his shopping list. “We could probably buy both premade,” he conceded, making a note.

            “Beer.”

            Steve made a face. “With turkey?”

            “Fine,” sighed Bucky. “Something more appropriate for turkey. Like Wild Turkey.”

            Steve shot him a look. Bucky affected an innocent expression. “Just trying to help.”

            “Right,” said Steve flatly. He felt ethically obliged to disapprove, but secretly he rejoiced in the interest Bucky was taking in the meal.

            “Cranberry sauce,” said Bucky. “We can buy that in a can these days, right?”

            “Right,” agreed Steve. “And we need a vegetable of some kind.”

            Bucky shuffled over to Steve’s fridge and got out two bottles of beer. “Why?” he asked.

            “Vegetables are good for you,” insisted Steve. “Come on, your mom used to tell us that all the time. ‘Eat your vegetables, boys! You’ll grow up big and strong!’ Remember?”

            “No,” said Bucky blankly.

            Steve looked up at him, uneasy. Bucky opened the beer bottles with his metal hand and set one down in front of Steve, taking a sip. He glanced down at the beer. “Wow,” he said. “They sure did wonders making beer taste better.” He squinted at the label. “There’s vegetables in here. Right? Don’t hops count as vegetables?”

            Steve decided not to push him to remember his mother’s cooking. Bucky had been doing so well since they’d left the hotel, poking around his new back yard, watching their strange new neighbors through a knothole in the privacy fence. There was no sense upsetting this brittle balance he’d achieved. “Well, I think we need a green vegetable,” he said. “They sell frozen bags that you stick in the microwave. That would be easy.”

            “Why do we need vegetables?” complained Bucky, sliding onto one of Steve’s barstools. “We’re super soldiers. Doesn’t matter what we eat.”

            “Of course it matters,” insisted Steve. “Vegetables are good for you. They have fiber and vitamins – “

            “I lived off granola and candy bars in Romania,” argued Bucky. “Didn’t seem to do me much harm.”

            “Vegetables are healthier and better for you,” said Steve stubbornly. He made an aggressive notation on his list. “Okay. I think we’re ready to go to the store.”

            “Yeah, this should be a gas,” said Bucky dryly. “We’ll need more beer.”

            “Maybe you should just drink less beer,” suggested Steve, just as dryly.

            Bucky gave him an affronted look. “Shut the hell up,” he said.

 

❄❅❄

 

            Two hours later, they were staring at the results of their grocery shopping trip, plastic bags dripping rainwater on Steve’s nice new Corian countertops. The kitchen was full of muted silvery light, flickering through the downpour. “The potatoes I get,” said Bucky slowly. “Peel and boil. Did enough KP to know that.”

            Steve picked up the bag of stuffing. “Dammit,” he muttered. “We forgot celery. We’re supposed to make this with celery.”

            “You and your green vegetables,” protested Bucky. “I don’t like celery, anyway. We got onion and some of that canned broth, which I still think is weird.” He looked over Steve’s shoulder at the instructions on the bag. “ _Stuffing a turkey can result in food poisoning and increased roasting times_. What the hell? Since when can we not stuff our own goddamn Thanksgiving turkey?”

            “Just as well, I’m not sure what to do with the giblets,” admitted Steve. “Do we cook them and add them to the gravy? And how do we make gravy?”

            “I used to know how to do that,” mused Bucky. “Get me a drink and I’ll think about it.”

            “Bucky – “

            “I need a cookbook.”

            “No,” said Steve, suddenly inspired. “You need a computer.”

 

❄❅❄

 

            Four hours later, they had gotten no further figuring out how to make gravy, but Bucky was in possession of a brand-new laptop from the local electronics store, open and purring on the Corian. Taps and clicks provided a pleasant counterpoint to the drum of the rain on the patio outside. Steve was trying to clean the turkey according to Bucky’s instructions on a cooking website.

            “ _Pat dry with a clean linen dish towel or a lintless paper towel_ ,” read Bucky, taking a sip of Wild Turkey. He had prevailed after all, and Steve, reassured by his renewed interest in comestibles, had agreed to a special trip to the ABC store. “ _Salt and pepper inside of carcass_. What the hell good does that do? Shouldn’t we salt and pepper the _outside?_ ” He scrolled down, scowling at the laptop screen. Steve smiled. The screen’s white-blue light flickered over his features. He was still gaunt and pale, but there was more attentiveness and focus in his expression than Steve had seen in five months. “Oh, wait. We shove butter under the skin. Apparently that’s a thing we’re supposed to do instead of basting.”

            “Did we get butter?” asked Steve worriedly.

            “Yeah, couple pounds,” said Bucky. “Wanna make cookies.”

            “No cookie sheets,” apologized Steve.

            “Dammit.” Bucky swung off the barstool and dug a pound of butter out of the refrigerator. He peered at the computer again. “ _Blend softened butter with garlic powder, salt, pepper, and dried sage and thyme_.” He gave Steve a look. “Lemme guess. You don’t have any seasonings except the ol’ black-and-white.”

            “Uh,” said Steve. Bucky just glared at him and returned to his new laptop.

 

❄❅❄

 

            The meal wasn’t a _complete_ disaster. The mashed potatoes were good, though a little lumpy, and the turkey was only slightly dry. The gravy and stuffing were flavorless, as apparently Steve, according to his best friend, didn’t know oregano from a reefer and wouldn’t recognize a bulb of garlic if it bit him on the ass. Bucky refused to eat the frozen, microwaved vegetables, declaring they were rubbery and tasteless, and Steve sadly agreed. They finished up the meal with their Publix pies and hot coffee. That, at least, neither of them could screw up.

            Bucky pushed his paper plate aside. Steve had forgotten to buy dishes. “What do we do with the body?” he asked, gesturing to the turkey, brown and gaping. Neither had known how to carve it properly, and despite – or perhaps because of - their combat skills with knives, it looked somewhat mangled.

            Steve shrugged. “Don’t we boil it? Make soup?”

            Bucky stared at him. “You got something to boil it in?”

            Steve measured the turkey with his eyes, comparing it mentally with his largest pot. “No,” he admitted.

            Bucky sighed. “God, I need my own kitchen,” he muttered, and got himself another slice of pie.

            Steve couldn’t hide his smile. Botching the turkey was a small price to pay for getting Bucky interested in his half of the duplex.

           

 

 


	5. 5

**5.**

            To Steve’s dismay, Bucky’s version of “being interested in his half of the duplex” did not quite mean the same thing to Bucky as it meant to Steve, or, he suspected, to the rest of the population of Sarasota.

            After a trip to Goodwill that Bucky had unfortunately deemed a success, he had dragged an extremely reluctant former Winter Soldier to a large department store, lured in by a garish sales circular advertising “Great Deals on Everything for Your Home This Holiday Season!” He still needed dishes, and although Bucky had cheerfully picked out a whole kitchen’s worth of secondhand and dilapidated supplies, Steve wanted something new. Sam had advised him to let Bucky choose what he wanted, and Steve did his best to not comment on the derelict pots and pans and mismatched stoneware.

            What he’d failed to factor in were the crowds, or more specifically, Bucky’s reaction to them. Steve’s breath had caught in his throat when he’d seen a feral flicker, Bucky tamped down in favor of the Winter Soldier’s manic paranoia, and he suddenly had a vision of Bucky vanishing into the fray leaving bodies behind, and Steve trying to explain to the World Security Council that he’d lost the Winter Soldier one month into his assignment. But after a few panicked moments, his breath shrill and fast in the back of his throat, Bucky had swallowed, his eyes darting everywhere, clenched his fists and set his jaw, and grabbed a cart like it was a weapon.

            Then again, knowing what the Winter Soldier had turned Bucky into, Steve supposed a cart could be used as a pretty effective weapon, under these circumstances. Fortunately, Bucky seemed to rather use it as a barrier between himself and the crowds. He watched Bucky push his cart through the aisles, head sunk a little between his shoulders. He was wearing a glove over his left hand, and giving passing shoppers sidelong glances, sufficient to keep idle chit-chatters or rude customers at bay.

            Steve stopped in housewares, and told Bucky to find himself something for his living room. “Forty-five minutes,” he said firmly. “No matter what.” He had expected Bucky to roll his eyes, but he’d only nodded passively, trundling away.

            That was a very long forty-five minutes. Steve had only let Bucky out of his sight when forced to in New York, when Bucky was questioned, or locked up, or in private conference with his lawyer. Even leaving Bucky alone in the inn on the harbor had felt iffy to him, always rushing back with a tight, apprehensive feeling that Bucky might not be there when he returned. But forty-five minutes to the second later, Bucky came back. His head was up and he had what Steve suspected was an actual smile on his face. He also had a cart containing nothing but a large-screen TV, a PS4, and six game cartridges.

            “What the hell are you going to sit on?” Steve demanded as Bucky pushed the overloaded cart up to him in the Kitchen and Bath aisle, shoving the Christmas decorations aside. “The floor?”

            “I bought a couch today at Goodwill,” Bucky assured him. “One of the guys on the loading dock says he’ll deliver it tonight for fifty bucks. And I already got a coffee table.”

            “You did?” Privately, he found the thought of a used sofa suspect, but supposed Bucky was as immune to contagious diseases as he. Steve picked up the PS4 cartridges. “Battle Zone, Tank Commander, Final Fantasy, Fallout Four … Grand Theft Auto, really, Buck?”

            “Yeah, and guess what,” said Bucky, his eye lighting up. “I can use this game console thing as something that connects with the internet! I can what do you call it, stream movies and TV shows and stuff.” He grinned at Steve. “I can start catching up.”

            He looked so excited that Steve smiled, too. “Speaking of catching up, we need to get you a cell phone,” he said. “Two, preferably. A good, high-end smart phone that’ll go on my plan that SHIELD and the World Security Council can bug, and a cash-only burner phone so we can actually talk to each other in private.”

            “Great, like drug dealers,” said Bucky dryly. “What are we gonna do about the bugs in the duplex? ‘Cause you know they’ve bugged us.”

            “I’m thinking,” promised Steve. “We’ll take care of it. Let’s move in, first.” He wheeled his cart, full of practical-looking dishes and cups, down the aisle. Christmas carols blared out of the overhead speakers, and he had to carefully maneuver past an endcap bursting with holiday ornaments. “Aren’t you going to get anything useful, like towels?”

            “Not here,” said Bucky. “Their towels feel like shit. I’m gonna find something better.”

            “You need a bed, too,” Steve pointed out. “Unless you want to sleep on my pull-out sofa forever.”

            “No thanks, pal,” grimaced Bucky. “Super soldier or not, that thing’s hell on my back.” He dug a crumpled advertisement circular out of the front pocket of his ragged jeans. “Look. I’m getting one of these.”

            Steve frowned at it. “Sleep Number Bed? Never heard of it.”

            “Supposed to be the most comfortable beds in the world,” averred Bucky. “Maybe then I’ll sleep better, right?”

            “If it helps, sure,” agreed Steve. Anything to get Bucky to sleep.

            They passed a huge display of artificial trees, sparkling with twinkling lights and hung with garland. Suddenly Steve was struck by a feeling of nostalgia. Bucky’s family had made such a big thing out of Christmas. “How about we buy a Christmas tree?” he suggested hopefully.

            Bucky glanced over at the brightly-lit artificial trees and shuddered. His face twisted up a little, as though in pain. “No thanks,” he said, his voice full of disdain, and Steve prudently dropped the subject.

 

❄❅❄

 

            He helped Bucky set up the TV and PS4, shaking his head at Bucky’s idea of a “coffee table” – a large, wooden cable spool, sitting smack in the middle of Bucky’s living room floor. They balanced on the edge of the spool and played a game of Battle Zone while they waited for Bucky’s couch and their dinner from the Thai place that the clerk at the liquor store had recommended. “I hope they include chopsticks,” said Steve. “You don’t even have silverware.”

            “Yes, I do,” said Bucky, offended. “I needed spoons to stir my coffee.”

            Steve poked through Bucky’s kitchen while Bucky helped the guy from Goodwill bring in the sofa. Bucky had splurged on a high-end coffee maker, but the rest of his supplies were either thrift-store specials, or picked up at random from the side of the fire road behind the neighborhood – concrete blocks, pallets, a rusty shovel. He heard thumps and scrapes, and was glad he’d opted for the tile in here, and not hardwoods. Then Bucky’s voice mingled with another man’s, and Steve heard Bucky chuckle. He smiled, wondering if he’d ever get used to hearing Bucky sound happy. He hoped so. He hoped it became such a normal thing that he took it for granted, like he used to when they were kids – bright, cheerful Bucky, grinning and joking.

            He heard Bucky’s doorbell chime, and Bucky yelled, “Hey, Stevie! Get the take-out!” Steve collected two bottles of beer and padded out into the living room.

            And stopped dead.

            Bucky’s new sofa was … awful.

            For starters, it was _puce_. It might have been pink at one time in its existence, but sun-fading and stains had altered its primary color horribly. Even calling it “puce” was insulting to the color puce.

            It was covered in abstract blobs that might have been intended to represent flowers at one point, splotched in mint green and gray-blue. Part of the back of the sofa had apparently been ripped and repaired with a fabric of similar weight, but different colors – maroon and forest green in a fruit pattern. And something – some animal, Steve hoped – had chewed off part of the left front foot. Bucky was shimming it up with a piece of cardboard torn from his TV box.

            A rotund, friendly-looking Hispanic man waved at Steve and grinned. He was missing most of his front teeth. Steve waved back and turned away from the sofa, the artist’s part of his brain screaming in agony.

            The Thai takeout delivery fellow handed over the bag, and Steve gave him his money with a generous tip. The guy thanked him, peeked around Steve and saw the sofa. His eyes widened. “Wow,” he said.

            “Yeah,” Steve replied grimly. “Wow.”

            Bucky, unsurprisingly, spoke Spanish. He chatted happily with the man from Goodwill, appropriated two containers of food for him to go with the hundred dollar bill he handed over, and at last they were alone … the four of them: Steve, Bucky, Thai take-out, and THE SOFA.

            Bucky started opening the bags and boxes on the cable spool, humming happily. He looked up at Steve through his hair, grinning. “So,” he said. “Whaddaya think?”

            “Uh,” said Steve. He stood back and, risking a nausea so great he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his Thai, studied the new sofa as objectively as he could. He had to cross his arms over his chest to protect himself from whatever malevolence radiated from the thing. “The color is, uh – “

            “Sit on it,” Bucky encouraged. He picked up a container of Pad Thai and a set of chopsticks, and sat down. He sank unnervingly deep into the cushions. He wriggled a little, a look of bliss on his face. “It’s _squishy._ ”

            Steve watched him eat his Thai, conflicted. On the one hand, it was the ugliest, most disreputable-looking sofa he had ever seen, including the couch he’d been forced to use in his old apartment in pre-War Brooklyn. Bucky could certainly have afforded a better sofa than this, considering how much back-pay and pension he was receiving. He’d spared no expense on the television and game station. This was a crime against furniture.

            On the other hand, Bucky looked so _happy_. The sofa cushions enveloped his abused body, letting him sink into its welcoming depths with the fetid perfidy of rotten brie, cradling him and stilling his restlessness. As Steve watched, Bucky took a big mouthful of noodles, smiling around them, his eyes fluttering shut with pleasure. He was clad in old clothes – an oversized hoodie that covered his arm, ragged jeans with the knees blown out, showcasing the lower edge of a horrible scar that Bucky claimed he didn’t know the origins of – his hair was shaggy and unkempt, hanging in his face and curling around his sweatshirt hood.

            He was clean, comfortable, well-fed, and smiling.

            Steve lowered himself carefully onto the sofa, dipping an alarming distance down. It creaked beneath his weight, but held. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and cigarette smoke.

            But Bucky liked it. So it would do.

 


	6. 6

**6.**

            “Jesus, Bucky,” murmured Steve, hoping the saleslady didn’t hear him. “My _car_ cost less than this.”

            “Your car is less comfortable, too,” Bucky retorted, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “And you don’t spend a third of your life in your car.” He gestured to the salesroom floor with a wide sweep of his metal arm, cleverly hidden by long sleeves and gloves. “This is potentially my ticket to a good goddamn night’s sleep for once. Your sofa is hard as a rock.”

            “There are much cheaper mattresses for sale, you know,” Steve said with a smile. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t buy it at Goodwill.”

            “Fuck you,” said Bucky complacently. He gave the approaching saleslady, returning with Bucky’s credit card and receipt folded into a glossy pamphlet, a hesitant smile. She beamed back. Bucky’s Sleep Number bed purchase had probably generated enough of a commission for her to vacation in Aruba for the entire month of January. “We all set, ma’am?”

            Steve wasn’t sure what kind of brainwashing they used on their employees, but the saleslady hadn’t given Bucky a second glance, and despite his diffidence and decidedly Unsafe For Public demeanor, she had treated him with a respectful joviality throughout the entire process. “We sure are, sweetheart,” she said cheerfully. She handed Bucky the overstuffed pamphlet. “Delivery and set-up is scheduled for next Tuesday. The technicians will call you that morning to make sure everything’s ready.”

            “That’s great,” smiled Bucky. They exchanged handshakes, and Steve, who was perfectly happy with his inexpensive mattress, drifted toward the door to avoid looking like he was interested in purchasing anything. Bucky caught up with him, still smiling. “Three days,” he gloated. “Three days on that shitty sofa of yours, pal, and I’m outa there.”

            “Great! Then maybe I’ll get my living room back,” said Steve dryly.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It means some things haven’t changed since 1938,” said Steve. “You still leave your shit everywhere.”

            “Do not,” said Bucky, but it was more an automatic response than an actual contradiction.

            The mall was packed with holiday shoppers, and Steve watched Bucky out of the corner of his eye as they pushed through the crowds. He kept his head down, eyes tracking the noisier passers-by and kiosk hawkers, his shoulder bumping Steve’s every now and again, more, Steve guessed, out of a need for reassurance than the press of people. They passed a large department store by the mall entrance, bedecked and bedizened in bright artificial trees and ornaments, sparkling with lights and shimmering gold and green and red. “That’s kinda pretty,” prompted Steve, gesturing with his head.

            Bucky glanced over and grimaced. “Eugh,” he only said.

            They exited the mall doors, and Bucky stopped. “Hang on,” he said, digging his wallet out of his pocket.

            A shabbily-clad Salvation Army bell-ringer with a bright red Santa hat smiled and nodded at them. Steve dug out a ten and stuffed it in the cauldron, then stopped in surprise when he realized Bucky was rolling up two hundred-dollar bills and cramming them inside.

            “Merry Christmas!” grinned the bell-ringer. Steve thanked him, and jogged to catch up with Bucky, who was crossing the parking lot faster than his usual long-legged swagger.

            “That was – “

            “Shut up.”

            Steve shut up. How much money Bucky donated to the Salvation Army was really none of his business. But considering how much he’d turned up his nose so far at the slightest whiff of Christmas, Steve couldn’t help but be curious.

            They got in Steve’s car. When Steve cranked it up, the radio station was playing a Christmas song, some modern remake of an old classic. Without a word, Bucky snapped the radio off.

            They rode in silence for about five minutes. It started to rain again. Bucky stared out the window, watching the traffic. He wasn’t slumped down, though, and his stare had focus, so Steve was encouraged enough to ask.

            “Okay,” he finally said. “You want to tell me why all of a sudden Salvation Army gets all your holiday spirit?”

            Bucky looked back at him. His pale eyes were bright and present, but his cheeks pinked a bit. It wasn’t warm enough in the car for it to be too hot; he looked embarrassed.

            “Not _all_ of it,” he mumbled, and turned away.

            “Come on, Buck,” coaxed Steve. “Two hundred bucks? That’s pretty generous.”

            Bucky shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “Well.”

            Steve waited. More silence.

            He sighed and turned on the radio. Some squawky-voiced singer was mangling “O Holy Night.” Bucky made an impatient noise and reached out for the control button, but Steve slapped his hand away. The metal stung his palm. “Come on,” he repeated. “Spill it.”

            “This music is fucking awful,” complained Bucky, reaching for the dial once more. Steve smacked his hand again.

            “I play it until you start talking,” he said firmly.

            Bucky sighed, loudly and dramatically. “Fine,” he said, and switched off the radio. “I’m repaying a debt.”

            “To Salvation Army?” said Steve in surprise. “What, did they take you in? Give you something? When you were post-Hydra?”

            “No,” said Bucky. “I had a mark.” He paused. “When I was. You know.”

            Steve did know. He decided that pushing it might not be a good idea. On the one hand, it was a positive sign that Bucky had remembered something from his previous life. On the other hand, he’d been so happy a moment ago, until Steve goaded him to talk about it.

            “Forget it,” he clipped. “I don’t need to know.”

            Bucky stared blankly at him for a moment. Then he turned the radio back on. The squawky singer was shrieking her way up the scale to the high notes. It was appalling.

            Steve switched the radio off. “Fine. I guess I _do_ need to know.”

            Bucky took a deep breath. “So. Yeah. I had a mark. Lobbyist. Big supporter of the Salvation Army. Used to dress up in a uniform and ring the bell at Christmas.” He hesitated, then said, “I – I shot him. In a crowd. Over two hundred yards. Quick hit.”

            Steve was silent, listening to Bucky’s breathing speed up. He felt like he ought to say something, but didn’t know what, so he decided to stay quiet. This was apparently the right thing to do, because Bucky cleared his throat and continued.

            “Lot of confusion. Noise. People screaming. The pot got knocked over, money went everywhere. It was windy. Most of it blew away.”

            “Two hundred dollars’ worth?” asked Steve disbelievingly.

            Bucky shrugged. “I’d watched him all morning. Calculated the take. It was about that.” He paused. “I felt bad. That money was supposed to go to homeless people.” He gulped and stared resolutely out the window. “Like me.”

            “Huh,” said Steve, frowning.

            “What?” challenged Bucky.

            “Well,” hesitated Steve, “you seem to feel worse about the Salvation Army losing cash than assassinating one of their bell-ringers.”

            “Oh, I didn’t feel bad about icing that fucker,” said Bucky easily. “He beat his wife, molested his daughters. Good riddance.”

            There was very little Steve could say to that. He was learning that, under those circumstances, he simply shouldn’t say anything.

            They rode the rest of the way home in silence.

 

❄❅❄

           

            Bucky’s Sleep Number Bed was delivered and installed on Tuesday afternoon. He declared that he was going to test it immediately, despite the fact it was only six o’clock and he hadn’t had dinner.

            “Shouldn’t you put on pajamas?” asked Steve, amused, as Bucky stripped out of his ragged jeans and sweatshirt and clambered into the bed, wearing nothing but underpants and holey socks. Bucky had already washed and dried the new, 800-threadcount sheets he’d purchased, and the bed sported a velvet-soft flannel blanket, a down comforter, and big, squashy pillows.

            “Stevie, I haven’t owned pajamas since I went to boot camp,” declared Bucky, settling in and grabbing the remote off the stack of concrete blocks he was using as a bedside table. “Let’s see how this fucker works.” He started to punch buttons, frowning at the remote, and Steve could hear the bed humming slightly. He folded his arms over his chest and smiled as Bucky’s eyes glazed over.

            “Oh, yeah, that’s perfect,” Bucky murmured. He placed the remote reverently on the concrete blocks and pulled the down comforter up to his chin, smiling slow and sweet. He nestled down and hummed to himself, eyes fluttering shut.

            “You want me to tuck you in?” grinned Steve.

            “Shut up,” whispered Bucky. He poked his metal hand out from underneath the covers and made a shooing motion with it. “Go away.”

            Steve chuckled and turned to leave the room. “I’ll make you pancakes for breakfast.”

            “I’ll be up in a bit,” promised Bucky, opening one eye. “Haven’t slept more’n two hours at a stretch in months, anyway.”

            “Right,” assented Steve. He shut the door softly behind him.

 

❄❅❄

 

            “Almost seven thousand dollars,” Steve told Mrs. Alvarado and her next-door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Sandoval. “I had no idea you could spend that much money on a bed.”

            “I hear they’re very comfortable,” rumbled Mr. Sandoval. He gave his wide-eyed wife a look. “Don’t go thinking anything now, Elma.”

            “Ooo, I wouldn’t,” insisted Mrs. Sandoval. “Just think! All that money for a bed! What is the world coming to!”

            “It’s an awful lot,” agreed her husband.

            “I think a former POW should sleep in whatever bed he wants,” declared Mrs. Alvarado, a little aggressively. She was wearing a red-and-gold, dragon-patterned kimono over her pink fluffy pajamas and snow boots. She had just taken out her curlers, and had come out to chat with Steve at the mailboxes, calling out to the Sandovals to meet the new neighbors. Steve had been talking with them for almost fifteen minutes. Mr. Sandoval had been a clerk at the New York Stock Exchange, and they were cheerfully comparing Manhattan and Brooklyn when Mrs. Sandoval had asked when they would meet “his hippie friend.”

            “Didn’t know he was a POW,” said Mr. Sandoval, taken aback. “Poor guy.”

            “Live and let live,” squeaked Mrs. Sandoval, her eyes enlarged by her convex glasses. At first Steve had thought he scared her, but he was coming to the conclusion that she simply looked perpetually startled. She reminded him a little bit of one of the lemurs on the nature documentary that Bucky had made him watch the night before last. “I’m sure he deserves every comfort.”

            “He does,” agreed Steve. His coffee was stone cold, but he didn’t care. This was going to be one of the benefits to being retired, he supposed – being able to talk about Bucky with people who had no idea what he’d been for all those years. It was refreshing.

            “Sabra Fetterman used to trade fresh-picked Valencias from the former owner for her cookies,” added Mrs. Sandoval, apropos of nothing. Steve was beginning to suspect her conversation had all the aim of a misfired mortar. “She said they were EXCELLENT. The oranges, not the cookies, though you know, Sabra IS a VERY good baker.”

            “Her rugelach is inspired,” assented Mrs. Alvarado. “You know, the Goudelocks next door used to buy grapefruit from Frank Hoffenberg – he owned the duplex before the bank took it over. You and your friend Bucky should get to know the Goudelocks. Nice folks, they’re from Toronto.”

            “Oh, I thought they were from Saskatoon,” said Mrs. Sandoval.

            “Bucky isn’t what you’d call very friendly,” cautioned Steve. “He hasn’t been – free – for very long.”

            “It must feel pretty odd to him,” sighed Mrs. Alvarado. “I can’t imagine being held captive and mistreated, and then suddenly the cage doors open and you’re told to run and play. It must be such a huge adjustment.”

            “Oh, goodness!” squeaked Mrs. Sandoval. “Is THAT what happened to him? Oh, the poor boy!”

            Steve regarded Mrs. Alvarado cautiously. He was eighty-five per cent sure that she knew exactly who and what Bucky was. She smiled gently back, then glanced past Steve to the duplex and smiled. “Well. Speak of the devil.”

            Steve turned. Bucky was stumbling his way down the driveway, rubbing his eyes with his flesh hand, barefoot, bare-chested. His metal arm gleamed in the late morning sunlight, and his hair was a riot of knots and spikes. He still had pillowcase imprints on his right cheek. “Hrrgh,” he said, groping for Steve’s mug. He downed the cold contents and made a face. “Ugh.”

            Steve checked his watch. “Over sixteen hours. That’s got to be a record.”

            “Mmmuuuhh.” Bucky blinked stupidly in the sunlight, barely even registering his neighbors’ presence. “M’need more coffee.”

            “So I guess you liked the Sleep Number Bed?” asked Mr. Sandoval, eyes twinkling.

            “Mm’yuh,” mumbled Bucky. He veered around, scratching his head, and staggered back up the driveway to Steve’s door, still holding the mug. Steve turned back to his neighbors with a smile.

            “Guess I’d better make some more coffee,” he said, shaking Mr. Sandoval’s hand. “Nice meeting you two.”

            “Don’t forget the Christmas Eve party,” Mrs. Alvarado called after him. “There’s even going to be ALCOHOL!”

            “Wouldn’t miss it,” promised Steve, and followed Bucky inside with an indulgent smile.

            Bucky was sitting at Steve’s counter, slumped over the empty cup. His eyes were closed, mouth slack, chin on his metal hand. Steve wordlessly rinsed the carafe and started a fresh pot. Bucky didn’t say anything until he had a hot mug in his hand. He opened his eyes and smiled slowly at Steve.

            “Best damn bed ever,” he grated, then muttered, “I’m STARVING.”

            Steve laughed and pulled out a carton of eggs and his griddle. He didn’t care if the Sleep Number Bed cost a million dollars. It was worth it.

 

 


	7. 7

**7.**

            Bucky walked through the sliding glass door into Steve’s kitchen, and dumped a dozen oranges on the counter. “Did you know that oranges are in season in the winter?” he said without preamble.

            Steve raised one eyebrow at the bright fruit rolling around next to his neatly arranged napkin holder, paper towels, and pepper mill. “I didn’t,” he admitted, picking one up. He smiled. “I remember you bringing me oranges one year I was so sick – I think it was 1936. They must’ve cost you a fortune.”

            Bucky went very still, and Steve mentally cursed to himself. He needed to stop making Bucky remember things. He watched his best friend warily. Bucky was staring down at the oranges, frowning, his eyebrows drawn together. His mouth worked silently a moment, then he murmured: “I stole them.”

            Steve blinked. “What?” he whispered.

            “From one of the Central American boats at the docks,” said Bucky slowly. “You were sick and the doctor said you needed fresh fruit. So I stole some oranges and brought them to you.” He looked up at Steve through his hair, smiling hesitantly. “You needed them,” he said, as though that explained everything.

            Steve felt like he was holding something very costly and fragile in hands too big, too ruthless and steeped in blood. “Why did you steal them?” he asked, carefully. “You could have bought them at Barber’s Grocery.”

            Bucky picked up one of the oranges and snagged a knife from Steve’s knife block. He sliced it open, his movement practiced and brutal, as though transecting an artery. The fresh, sharp scent of citrus filled Steve’s early morning kitchen, cut through the mellow warm coffee smell. “I made nineteen cents a day,” he said to the orange, bleeding its bright fragrant juice on the Corian. “I could barely afford to pay rent.” He held out half of it to Steve with his metal hand. Steve took it, seeing little bits of leaves stuck in some of the smaller finger-plates of the hand, the misty condensation from outside gleaming on the adamantium.

            “You remember that?” he mused.

            “It was you,” said Bucky simply. “Yeah. That, I remember.”

            Steve couldn’t speak; his throat was too tight. He took down a coffee mug, filled it, and handed it to Bucky. Bucky sipped slowly, his eyes on the oranges. The muted sunlight filled Steve’s kitchen, flickering in through the palm trees on the other side of the fence through his sliding glass door. It had rained in the night, but cleared, and the weatherman on the radio had said the day would be sunny.

            Steve hoped he could talk Bucky into taking a walk, maybe meeting some neighbors, or going down to Spanish Point to see the Christmas decorations. Bucky had so far responded with disdain to all of Steve’s attempts to be Christmassy, even grimacing at the little tinsel tree Steve had set up next to his fireplace. He knew he was grasping at normalcy, trying to force his half-feral best friend into a house and holidays and domesticity. He had to continually remind himself to be patient, to wait, to not strong-arm Bucky into anything he wasn’t ready for. So he and Bucky just stood together in his kitchen, drinking coffee and looking at oranges.

            The silence should have been awkward. It kind of wasn’t.

 

❄❅❄

 

            They didn’t mention oranges again until two mornings later, when Bucky once again marched unannounced through Steve’s sliding glass door. This time, instead of citrus, he was carrying a plate of homemade sugar cookies, shaped like Stars of David and decorated with blue and white icing. He thunked the plate on Steve’s kitchen counter and helped himself to coffee. Steve stared at the cookies. He could tell that two of them had already been eaten, empty places in the pile.

            “What’s this?” he asked, mystified.

            “Did you know there are only three lots in the whole neighborhood with orange trees?” said Bucky. He pulled up the plastic wrap and snagged a cookie, took a big bite. “Jewish lady down the street. Name was Sabra, told me to wish you Happy Hanukkah. Traded me for a big bag.”

            “How about that,” said Steve with a smile. He probably shouldn’t have felt quite this happy, but couldn’t help himself.

 

 


	8. 8

**8.**

            Steve was relieved when Bucky wandered into his kitchen through the back sliding glass door. He was in full dress blues, his chest plastered with medals and ribbons. His tie was crooked, but Steve didn’t care. He had thought Bucky would change his mind and not come at all.

            “Not bad, soldier,” he grinned. Bucky ran a hand through his hair. He had obviously tried to tie it back, but it wasn’t quite long enough to stay in the elastic, and dark, shining strands hung down around his freshly-shaved cheeks. Steve’s heart turned over.  Bucky actually looked _nervous_. Was this a good idea? Making the former Winter Soldier nervous in public was probably not a very good idea. “You don’t have to go if you really don’t want to, Buck,” he said anxiously.

            “Fuck it, I stuffed myself into this goddamn uniform and I’m going,” snapped Bucky. “Jesus. I feel like an airline pilot. What the hell was wrong with our khakis?” He stood, frowning silently, while Steve adjusted his medals and straightened his tie. When Steve stepped back to assess his work, Bucky complained, “You look perfect. How am I supposed to walk into a party with you looking like that?”

            “Yeah, every old lady in the neighborhood’s gonna want my number,” laughed Steve. “Come on, Buck. Mrs. Alvarado told me that over fifty percent of the residents are retired military. This’ll be sign of respect to them.”

            “You just want to distract people from realizing I’m the Winter Soldier,” blurted Bucky. When Steve turned to him, wide-eyed, Bucky shrank back as though he had said something to hurt him. “You do,” he mumbled, and ran his hand through his hair again.

            Steve’s heart twisted with guilt. Bucky was more right than he knew. “You haven’t been that guy in years,” he insisted, pulse jumping. “Besides, no one’s even mentioned it. I don’t think these people think about stuff like that here.”

            Bucky swallowed heavily and nodded, but his eyes were still scared. Cursing to himself, Steve picked up the bottle of Pinot Noir, wrapped festively in gold and burgundy. “You carry this,” he instructed. “Mr. Sandoval said that everyone contributes to public debauchery in this neighborhood.”

            “Feels like the Army, all right,” muttered Bucky tightly, cramming on his cap. He followed Steve out of the duplex and down the driveway. Steve glanced back at their new home. His side was brightly lit, battery-powered LED candles in the windows and a wreath from Wal-Mart on his front door. Bucky’s side was dark. It looked like no one lived there.

            The night was clear and cool. They walked the two blocks to the clubhouse. Residents in Mercury Crown Vics and Lincoln Towncars drove slowly past, staring at the two in their dress uniforms. Most of the homes they passed were decorated with bright lights, Christmas trees or menorahs shining in the front windows. Some had lawn decorations, Santas and reindeer and wooden mock-ups of cartoon characters or nativity scenes. Steve could feel Bucky’s tension radiating off his shoulders. He wondered if this was a mistake, forcing Bucky to go to a Christmas party. He just wanted Bucky to meet people, talk to people, start to feel at home in their new neighborhood. He didn’t even care at this point if Bucky wanted to celebrate the holidays. It was Christmas Eve, and he’d paid less attention to the season than to his new bed.

            They approached the brightly-lit clubhouse. Steve had been in, once, before they bought the duplex, just as a courtesy pass-through with the real estate agent. It had been quiet, a few people playing cards, a water aerobics class going on in the pool out back. An elderly foursome was playing a surprisingly athletic game of tennis on the side court, laughing and talking. Now, the pool and tennis court were empty, and the clubhouse was bursting with people.

            He glanced at Bucky right before opening the door. Bucky was glowering a little, his pale eyes darting around, assessing, seeking out threats, looking for exits. His heart sank. Maybe this was too much, too fast. He should have listened to Sam. This was a mistake.

            He must’ve hesitated longer than he’d thought. Bucky nudged him with his elbow. “Don’t worry, pal,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smirk. “I’m sure we’ll find a nice old girl to dance with you.”

            Steve looked down at him in surprise. Bucky was smiling a little, tipping his head to the side to look up at him past his cap brim. “You know, I still don’t know how to dance,” Steve admitted, and opened the door.

            “Yeah, well,” sighed Bucky, adjusting his tie. “I’ve probably forgotten how, anyway.”

            The heat, light, and noise hit them like a shockwave. A recording of Gene Autry singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” could be heard over the din of people talking and laughing. It was packed, not only with their retired neighbors, but with their families, middle-aged couples and young adults and surly teenagers, and even a few small children and toddlers, all dressed to the nines and celebrating.

            As one, they removed their caps and glanced at each other. _Into the breach,_ Steve thought.

            One step, two steps, three steps inside. Steve kept thinking, _You can do this, Bucky. Come on, Buck. You’re safe. You’re home. It’s okay. Everything’s okay now._ There was the sound of a wine cork being drawn, a burst of laughter. Streamers and balloons hung from the ceiling. Everything glittered. Christmas and Hanukkah decorations intermingled on the walls and shelves. Gene Autry crooned to a halt, only to be replaced by Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” A grey-haired couple, the man in an old Air Force uniform, started a cozy slow-dance; a woman walked by with a toddler eating a candy cane. Bucky paused, looking around. Slowly, his shoulders loosened, his chin went up. The scowl disappeared.

            Steve started to relax. Things were going to be all right. Bucky would be fine. He wouldn’t have an episode or a breakdown. They would have a few drinks, meet a few neighbors, and go home. It was fine. There was nothing to worry about.

            Chances were actually pretty good he wouldn’t kill anyone.

            Two little old ladies bustled by them, chattering about their grandchildren. They both paused as one, looking up in surprise and perplexity at Steve and Bucky. Steve and Bucky stared back. One of the ladies grabbed her friend by the elbow, her mouth dropping open, her eyes widening. Steve braced himself.

            “Look, Doris! The homeowner’s association got us male strippers after all!”

            “Finally!” said the other, looking them up and down. “I want the one with the long hair.” She winked at Bucky. “I like the bad boys!”

            They gave Steve and Bucky appreciative looks, eyes shining, then bustled off, giggling to each other. Steve looked at Bucky, stunned. Bucky’s mouth curled up into a smile. “Well, I did wanna get out of this goddamn uniform,” he said.

            “There you are!” shrieked Mrs. Sandoval, floating up to them through the crowd. She was wearing a pink sparkly muumuu with light-up reindeer earrings and held two glasses of champagne. “Gracie saw you across the room! Have a drink, you two!”

            “Thank you,” said Steve. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky drain the glass, still looking around the room curiously. “Bucky, this is Mrs. Sandoval. She lives across the street.” He added, “You sort of already met her, but you were in no state to pay much attention.”

            Bucky shook her hand soberly. Mrs. Sandoval urged, “Put your names in the New Year’s raffle! They’re giving away a George Forman grill this year!” Then she drifted off, squeaking loudly: “PETER! Tell Fred’s grandson not to climb on the snowman or it’ll pop!”

            “Well, hello handsome!” Mrs. Alvarado plucked at his elbow. “And you must be Bucky! Look at you two, all decked out!” She was in her WAC uniform, but was wearing a Santa hat. She touched it with a smile. “Not regulation, I know.”

            “You look great,” smiled Steve.

            “So do you two,” she said. “You know, Artie Phillips’ daughter is here, she’s so good-looking, I ought to introduce you – “ She looked from Bucky to Steve and back again. “Honestly,” she said, “I don’t know which one of you I ought to introduce. My god, you two are both so cute.” She turned around, grasped them each by the hand, and started hauling them to the bar. “That’s it. We’re going to have to lay in a supply of pretty girls around here, just to keep you boys occupied.”

            “Now see what you did, ma’am, you made Stevie blush,” said Bucky with a crooked smile, and Steve tried not to grin too obviously when he saw Bucky give a passing girl in a very short Santa dress a lingering look. Mrs. Alvarado got them each refills of champagne and started to introduce them to everyone she knew.

            Steve got drawn into a conversation with a dignified gentleman in a Christmas sweater about the next Homeowner’s Association meeting, careful to watch for Bucky out of the corner of his eye. He saw Bucky listening with deferential politeness to a woman in blue as she introduced her husband to him. “Howie, this is the nice young man I traded cookies for those oranges,” he heard, and tried to concentrate on what the man in front of him was saying. “After the new year, we need to look into replacing the pump for the pool,” and then Steve was in Problem-Solving mode, and he let himself get drawn into a debate with several other men about cost and fees and energy efficiency.

            He was so focused on the pool pump problem that he forgot to worry about Bucky. Someone pressed a tumbler of whiskey into his hands, and he thanked the fellow, who introduced himself as Bruce and said he lived on Sanibel Lane, and would Steve be interested in coming to the next county zoning board meeting with him? There was some question about the sidewalks, which the residents used to access the drug store across the street. This led him into a discussion about the front entrance lights and who, exactly, was responsible when young drunken reprobates ran them over, and a woman named Kathy said her son was a Sarasota County sheriff’s deputy and they should bring it up with the Florida DOT, sparking a discussion about DUI laws and county access to residential property, and before he knew it, he had completely lost track of where Bucky might have ended up.

            He accepted a rather potent eggnog, politely excused himself with the promise to attend not only the zoning board meeting but also the next homeowner’s association meeting, and carefully pushed his way through the crowd, the little knot of anxiety in his chest tightening whenever he realized Bucky was out of his immediate line of sight.

            The party had, if possible, gotten louder. Several couples were dancing in the middle of the room, and a small child ran past him, shrieking, his mother on his heels, yelling, “TRAVIS! Put Grandma’s dentures down THIS INSTANT!” It was getting hot in the clubhouse. Steve looked around, trying to find Bucky’s dark, sleek head in all of this. He saw several men in dress blues, but none of them were Bucky. Considering the crowd, he was probably outside.

            Steve pushed his way out of a door with a sign that said “POOL-CABANA-SMOKING AREA.” It was just as crowded out here, but cooler and less noisy. The pool (heated, the real estate agent had assured him) was lit with colored lights, and the wall around the cabana area was lined with tinsel. The moon was bright overhead, and Christmas music piped tinnily out through the little speakers under the eaves. There was a cluster of men at a table by the pool, smoking, a bottle of scotch on the table in front of them. Bucky was sitting with them, and he was laughing.

            His cap was resting on the table, and he had a cigarette between his lips, a tumbler of scotch turning around in the fingers of his metal hand. One of them men was lifting the hem of his slacks to reveal a prosthetic. “See?” Steve heard the man say. “Low tech, compared to that fancy thing you got.”         

            “Let’s see it,” said another, taking a swallow of scotch and nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “My god, men! You should feel how hard that is!”

            “What is it the kids say these days?” said the man with the prosthetic leg. “That’s what she said?”

            Bucky laughed along with them, and good-naturedly removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He let the men touch and poke at his metal arm, smoking and smiling, and explaining what it did and how it worked. Someone refilled his tumbler. He glanced up, saw Steve, and his face brightened.

            “There he is!” he crowed, stubbing out his cigarette. “Steve! C’mere and meet the fellows!”

            Steve stepped forward with a smile and held out his hand to the man with the prosthetic leg. “This is Bill Hayes,” said Bucky. His eyes were bright and animated, the upward curl of his mouth a jolly smirk. “Fly-boy, Vietnam. Cradle-robber. Married a younger woman.”

            “I can handle her,” said Bill, eyes twinkling. “Pleasure to meet you, Steve. Bucky’s been telling us all about you.”

            “Howie Fetterman. His wife’s the one I got the cookies from.” Bucky snagged another cigarette from the pack on the table. “Jim Allen. Says his next door neighbor’s selling an antique car, something big and fast. Think I’m gonna take a look at it.”

            Steve shook hands all round, and sat when they pulled out a chair and poured him a tumbler of scotch. He smiled, watching Bucky joke and laugh with the men while he put his shirt and jacket back on. His tie was loose around his neck, the cigarette bobbing against his lower lip as he talked. Steve was shot backwards in time, Bucky at the pub with Dugan and Morita, playing poker for contraband cigarettes and drinking all the restricted scotch in London, the tinkle of the spinet and raucous laughter of servicemen who knew they could be dead in forty-eight hours’ time. Bucky, his dark blue Commandos coat open at the collar, eyes crinkled and sparkling, laughing and gesturing with his dram glass, surrounded by friends he knew he could trust.

            He was so overwhelmed by this memory that he didn’t notice the conversation had changed tacks until Howie Fetterman announced: “Well, now that Dan Morris is gone, we need to at least bring it up to a foursome if we want to save on greens fees. How about it, you two?” He looked from Steve to Bucky expectantly.

            Steve was taken aback. “Uh. I’ve never set foot on a golf course in my life,” he admitted.

            “I have,” said Bucky easily. “I’m in. One of you fellas’ll have to spot me some clubs ‘til I can find a set, though.”

            Steve stared at him in surprise. To his knowledge, Bucky had never played a round of golf before. Clint would be delighted.

            He finished his scotch while Bucky arranged meeting up with his newfound friends for a Tuesday tee time, and rose when Bucky did. “Not quitting already, are you, old man?” joked Bill Hayes, rising to shake Bucky’s and Steve’s hands.

            “Gotta get back to my Sleep Number Bed,” grinned Bucky, picking up his cap. “And you gotta get back to your young wife, you cradle-robber.”

            Steve smiled and shook hands with the three old men. “Pleasure to meet you all,” he said, a little formally. This was Bucky’s domain and he wanted to tread carefully.

            “You two come over tomorrow afternoon!” called Jim Allen. “Ellie bought half a cow, thinking her cousins would be here, but they’re stuck in Illinois. I need you boys to help us eat it!”

            “Sounds great,” said Bucky. “I’ll bring booze and oranges.” He walked backwards away from them, giving them a mock-salute. “And I wanna see your neighbor’s car.”

            “Good-night!” they all called, and Steve and Bucky made their way back into the clubhouse. It was hot and noisy. As they pushed their way through the crowd, one old lady grasped at Steve’s sleeve, and he paused.

            “You haven’t stripped yet!” she accused him. She looked as though she’d had one too many eggnogs.

            “You missed it, ma’am,” said Steve, gesturing at Bucky. “He had his shirt off out there by the pool.”

            “Goddammit!” she howled, and wobbled away.

            They made their way to the bar, and said good-night to Mrs. Alvarado. “The Sandovals already went home,” she told them, kissing them each on the cheek. “You boys have a merry Christmas.” She said it like it was a threat.

            “We will,” promised Steve. “Merry Christmas, Lieutenant.”

            She saluted him with her champagne glass, and returned to the bar. Steve, seeing the tired tightness around Bucky’s eyes, knew he’d reached his limit and it was time to go. He guided his best friend through the crowd as quickly as politesse allowed, and they finally made it out the front door. They put on their caps, Steve’s perfectly centered, Bucky’s cock-eyed, jaunty and insouciant. As one, they took deep breaths, smiled at each other, and started to walk back to the duplex.

            They were both quiet. Steve was still on edge, second-guessing himself about the party. Had it been too much? Had he pulled Bucky away too soon? Too late? Did Bucky really want to go over to the Allens’ house for Christmas dinner? Struck by a sudden thought, he said, “You play golf?”

            “Nope,” said Bucky. He swaggered along casually, hands in his pockets. He smelled of scotch and tobacco, and it was so simple for Steve to believe it was 1937 and they were walking back from a supper club, jazz ringing in their ears.

            “You said you played golf,” Steve argued.

            Bucky smiled up at the moon, his eyes reflecting back its pale light. “Never said that. Said I’d set foot on a golf course before.”

            Steve shot him a suspicious look. “And?” he prompted.

            Bucky glanced at him. “British member of the House of Lords on a Scottish golf course, 1963,” he said. The tone of his voice suggested he really didn’t want to discuss it.

            Steve suppressed a shudder. He hoped Bucky’s prior golfing experience would not be a topic of conversation amongst his new friends.

            They reached their duplex. Their front stoops were only a few feet apart, the two sides of the duplex mirror images of each other, one dark, one light. Steve started to unlock his door, but Bucky said softly, “Hey. Steve.”

            Steve looked over at him. His porch light illuminated Bucky’s face, still gaunt and a little pale. He looked tired, as though the press of humanity had worn him down, but his eyes weren’t unhappy. “Yeah, Buck?”

            “You, uh,” said Bucky. He looked down and kicked a rock off his stoop. “Wanna come in? Have a drink?”

            Steve had drunk plenty, but was pleased by the invitation. It almost felt like he had his old Bucky back, even though he knew that would never be completely possible. “Sure,” he assented. He waited for Bucky to unlock his door and gave the moon another appreciative glance. Florida was nice in December, he decided. It was mild and clear, and the air smelled of salt and green growing things, and someone was cooking dinner somewhere. Steve’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten a single hors d'oeuvres at the party.        

            Bucky opened his front door and stepped aside, gesturing Steve to enter. Steve walked in, removing his hat and waiting for Bucky to turn on the lights. Bucky crossed the living room in the dark, his dress shoes clacking on the tile. Steve heard him rustle around a moment, then, with a click, the room was full of glowing color.

            A big, fresh Christmas tree stood by the fireplace, bedecked in sparkling garland and twinkling lights, surmounted by a battered tinsel star. A few little ornaments hung from its branches, mostly faded glass balls, and a few Styrofoam cardinals, their red tail feathers somewhat moth-eaten. There were presents under the tree, and two plain red felt stockings on the mantle. On one was written, in white glittery fabric pen, “Stevie,” and the other, “James.” Bucky stood next to it, head ducked down, looking a little shamefaced.

            “Merry Christmas, Stevie,” he mumbled, and took off his cap.

            “Jesus, Buck,” breathed Steve. It occurred to him that the toothsome smell of dinner was stronger. He took a deep breath. It was hauntingly familiar. “Is that – do I smell – “

            “Cabbage rolls,” admitted Bucky, rubbing the back of his neck, his face scarlet. “Not gonna be like you used to have, ‘cause I didn’t have your ma’s recipe, but – “ he trailed off, looking very uncomfortable.

            “You remembered,” said Steve. His throat felt very tight, but he was determined to keep his voice steady. Bucky looked almost ready to bolt at the slightest provocation, and this was so unprecedented that Steve didn’t want to jostle anything, disturb this sudden and wonderful development. He stepped forward, touched one of the tree’s branches with a finger. “Balsam fir?”

            “Fuckin’ expensive down here,” grumbled Bucky, pulling off his tie and jacket, and tossing them onto his regrettable pink sofa. “But I hate fake trees, all that plastic. Gimme a real tree, any Christmas.”

            Steve couldn’t imagine the last time Bucky had been allowed to celebrate, or even recognize, Christmas. Probably 1944. This thought made him feel even more wistful and disheartened than he had any right to be, faced with what Bucky had managed to accomplish.

            A suspicious thought occurred to him. “You don’t have a car,” he pointed out. “How’d you manage to get all this?”

            Bucky’s mouth twisted into a mischievous grin. “You know how you went for a nice long run two mornings ago?”

            Steve looked warily at him. “And I thought you were asleep?” he prompted.

            Bucky’s grin got wider. “Stole your car.”

            Steve closed his eyes, shaking his head, but he couldn’t stop the smile. “You jerk.”

            “Punk.” Bucky headed to his bedroom. “I’m gonna peel myself out of this monkey suit. Set the table, will ya?”

            Steve waited until Bucky disappeared into his room before allowing himself to react, and even then, he kept his emotions tightly in check. It would never do to let Bucky see how deeply he was affected – it would probably make him shut down, reverse what fragile détente had been reached in Bucky’s brain between despair and recovery.

            He set Bucky’s rickety card table with shaking hands, folding the cheap paper napkins beneath the mismatched forks and knives. Bucky’s kitchen was warm and colorful, and he had already started to crowd it with knick-knacks and random cooking paraphernalia. He chanced a peek at the cabbage rolls, simmering in a casserole dish in the oven. They smelled heavenly. Next Thanksgiving, Steve was making Bucky do all the cooking.

            Steve pulled off his jacket and tie, hanging them carefully on the back of one of the folding chairs. He found Bucky’s Wild Turkey and poured them each a generous tumblerfull. Bucky sauntered back into the kitchen, some of his composure regained, though he was still pink around the cheeks. Steve handed him a tumbler with a solid, self-possessed smile. “Thanks, Buck,” he said firmly. “Merry Christmas, pal.”

            “Yeah, uh-huh,” said Bucky, looking relieved. He knocked back the bourbon. “I could eat a horse.” He grinned. “Shame all we got’s this.”

            “How’d you manage not overcooking them, anyway?” asked Steve curiously, sitting as Bucky pulled the casserole dish out of the oven. “We were at that party for over two hours.”

            “Came back with Jim, Howie, and Bill,” said Bucky. “They wanted to see my flatscreen, and I needed to put the cabbage rolls in the oven.” He grinned. “Bill can put away about a gallon of bourbon. Kinda reminds me of Monty.”

            Steve’s smile went sideways, but he couldn’t help but let the relief roll over him, watching as Bucky spooned out cabbage rolls and sauce onto his plate. It had taken seventy years, but they had both managed to make it home from the War after all.

           

           

 


	9. 9

**9.**

            They’d had snowless Christmases before, but this was the first one Steve could remember that had been warm enough for him to make pancakes in his shirtsleeves. The sun was shining, and everything outside looked very green. The dew sparkled on the broad, flat-leafed centipede grass and Bucky’s fruit trees, and little anoles with bright red throat pouches did their push-ups on the fence. He and Bucky opened up their sliding glass doors so the Christmas music streaming from Bucky’s PS4 trickled into Steve’s kitchen as they ate. Everything smelled like damp foliage, fresh oranges, coffee, and maple syrup.

            Bucky had stuffed Steve’s stocking with ridiculous little items: snowman-shaped marshmallows, a pen that looked like a lightsaber, a Dora the Explorer toothbrush, a Batman action figure. “Mint in box,” Bucky had said proudly around a handful of cashews that Steve had stowed in his stocking. “Found him at a yard sale.”

            “Thanks,” said Steve dryly, and balanced Batman on Bucky’s hearth next to the lightsaber pen.

            Bucky unrolled the tee shirt and gave Steve a dirty look. “The Tampa Bay Rays? Really, Steve?”

            “We’re Floridians now,” grinned Steve. “Gotta support the local boys.”

            Bucky chucked the tee shirt at Steve’s head. Steve laughed. “Hey,” said Bucky, his eyes widening with realization. “Spring training. Florida. We’re already _here.”_

            “I checked,” smiled Steve. “Port Charlotte’s only forty minutes from here. We can see _all_ the games.”

            “Holy cow,” said Bucky, face brightening. “We can get box seats.”

            “Season tickets.”

            “Unlimited hot dogs and popcorn.”

            “Catching pop flies.”

            “Pennants and team jerseys.”

            They sat on the floor and grinned at each other. It really felt like Christmas to Steve now. “Okay, so maybe this Florida thing isn’t so bad after all,” admitted Bucky, still grinning. “All right. Let’s open our presents. I wanna see what you got me.”

            “Not a Batman action figure,” said Steve, grabbing one of his boxes.

            “Don’t want Batman. Want Iron Man.”

            Steve threw the shirt back at him.

            Steve’s gifts of soft sweatshirts, plush socks, cozy throws, and a big slow cooker made Bucky laugh. “Tryin’ to domesticate me, Stevie?” he joked, pulling on a camouflage-patterned stocking cap.

            Steve gave a sardonic huff. “Not a chance of that happening,” he said.

            Bucky proved once again that he had Steve’s number when Steve unwrapped the paint pallet and brushes. He stared down at them in surprise as Bucky shifted uncomfortably and said, “I thought, y’know, you could set up an easel or somethin’ in your guest room …” He trailed off, running his fingers through his hair a little nervously. “If you’re still into that sort of thing.”

            “I am. Was. Still am,” said Steve, pulling out the tubes of oil paint one by one, titanium, sienna, magenta, aquamarine. “I never really – really had the time, not the past – “ he made some mental calculations and shook his head. “Seventy-two years.”

            “Well, high time you picked it up again,” declared Bucky. “Look, we’re retired, right? That means you got all the time in the world to do whatever you want, whenever you want. So draw, paint, go to baseball games, make pancakes. Go to parties, join committees, all that stuff you think is fun.” He grinned. “I promise I won’t even make fun of you.” He paused. “Much,” he added.

            “Gee, how can I turn that down?” laughed Steve. “Jerk.”

            “Punk,” said Bucky.

 

❄❅❄

 

            Jim Allen called when Steve was gathering up the torn wrapping paper and bows. “Jim says Ellie’s cow is ready,” Bucky said. “And to get our asses down there before she turns it into charcoal.”

            “Tell him charcoal’s good for the digestion,” said Steve, stuffing the paper in Bucky’s version of a trash can, which was an old, broken storage box.

            Bucky filled a grocery store bag with oranges, lemons, and limes. He also picked an oddly shaped fruit that neither of them recognized, but Bucky looked it up on the Internet and declared it was a carambola. They each tried one and, deciding it was good, added several to the bag. Steve tucked a bottle of wine under his arm. They locked up and started down the street.

            Some of their neighbors were out and about, and all called “Merry Christmas!” to them. Steve and Bucky waved back. Mrs. Sandoval was straightening the bow on her mailbox, and told them that Gracie Alvarado was too hung over to come out, but should have recovered by the evening if they wanted to stop by. They thanked her and walked on.

            The afternoon had gotten warm. Steve was still in his tee shirt and felt comfortable, but Bucky had automatically slid on his sweatshirt and glove to disguise the arm. He made Steve hold the bag of fruit while he stripped it off. His arm gleamed in the sunlight. A couple of people stared curiously at him, but Bucky just bit his lip and pretended it didn’t bother him. This made Steve both panicked and tenuously happy.

            They turned from Ponte Vedra onto Bermuda Court. Someone’s grandchildren were playing in a front yard with their new Christmas acquisitions, a football and a scooter. They didn’t give Bucky’s arm a second look, and when the football went wide and wobbled onto the street, Steve picked it up and threw it easily back at them.

            “Thanks, dude!” the boy called, and he and his sister went back to their gifts.

            Bucky paused at the Fettermans’ house to say hello to Sabra, who was chatting with a next-door neighbor. She encouraged them both to buy tickets for the New Years Raffle. “All profits go to the Boys and Girls Club this year,” she said. “Such a worthwhile charity.”

            “We’ll stop by the clubhouse and pick up a couple,” Steve promised her.

            “Heading to the Allens’ for Christmas dinner?” smiled Sabra. “Watch out for Jim’s rum punch. It’s pretty potent.”

            “Sounds like my kind of grog,” admitted Bucky.

            They approached the Allens’ house. Steve glanced at Bucky, wondering if he was at all nervous like he had been the night before, or if a small, comfortable dinner in someone’s home didn’t trigger the same kind of anxiety a big party did. Bucky seemed relaxed, chin up, shoulders down, looking around with a tranquil curiosity. Then he stopped and pointed, his face lighting up.

            “There,” he breathed. “That must be it.”

            Steve followed the line of his finger. There was a large, gleaming, black car in the driveway next to the Allens’ house, trimmed with chrome. It was low and sleek with its long hood and lifted back. It looked fast and dangerous and a little mean.

            “Yep, that sure looks like you,” said Steve, trying not to sound sarcastic.

            Bucky smiled. “It sure does,” he gloated. “God, I want it already.”

            “Cow first,” insisted Steve. “Your friends are waiting.”

            “ _Our_ friends,” Bucky corrected him. The door opened and Jim poked his head out. “Hey, Jimbo!”

            “Bucky!” shouted the old man. “Steve! Get your asses in here and rescue me from all these dishes.” He shook his head and laughed. “I hope you two boys brought some big appetites, because Ellie cooked enough to feed an army.”

            “We’ll see about that,” said Bucky with a laugh, answering Jim Allen’s hearty handshake easily, then greeted Ellie in her Santa Claus apron, not a trace of nervousness or self-consciousness on his face.

            Steve stepped into the little ranch, looking around curiously. He remembered his grandmother’s house, its musty smells and dark flocked wallpaper and old-fashioned stove; Jim and Ellie were about the age his grandmother had been when he’d known her. But the house was bright and full of Christmas music and the scent of roast beef and gravy, a collection of cranberry glass in one lit cabinet and family portraits scattered across the walls. Plastic logs in the fireplace imitated a smoldering fire, and there was a cocktail tray on the shining brass coffee table. He wondered what Jim had thought of Bucky’s cable spool.

            “I’m so glad that Bucky has agreed to join Jim’s golf foursome,” said Ellie with a bright smile, handing him a cut crystal punch cup. It felt tiny in his hand and smelled heavily of cloves and whiskey. “Dan Morris played with Jim, Howie, and Bill for _years._ But when his grandson got transferred to Phoenix and offered to take Dan with him and his family, well, that was just too good an offer to refuse.”

            “Eh, he had a handicap of twenty-one,” said Jim. He had given Bucky a cigar and a cup of punch, and Bucky was leaning forward into Jim’s Zippo to light up. “What’s your handicap, Bucky?”

            “Only got one arm,” said Bucky with a wink around the cigar. Jim laughed and they both puffed contentedly between the two of them. Ellie rolled her eyes and pulled out a long, slim cigarette.

            “Do you smoke?” she asked politely.

            “No, ma’am,” admitted Steve. “But I don’t mind it at all.” It reminded him of Bucky before the war, hand-rolling cigarettes on the fire escape, their legs dangling over the garbage cans three stories below. He eyed Ellie surreptitiously as she lit her cigarette. She was tall and slim, hair dyed blond and neatly coiffed, and wore a Christmas sweater and nicely-pressed slacks. She didn’t look a thing like his grandmother. He glanced at some of the photographs on the wall behind her. “How many grandchildren do you and Jim have?”

            “Seven,” she beamed, helping herself to a cup of punch. “The oldest is thirteen, the youngest is two. Miriam, our daughter, lives with her husband in Columbus. She has three children, and our son Paul is stationed in Tokyo, so we don’t see his kids very much, unfortunately. But what a great opportunity for them, living overseas!” She cocked her head at him inquisitively. “Bucky … has spent a lot of time out of the United States, hasn’t he?”

            Steve turned his head just enough to check on his friend. Bucky was talking and laughing around his cigar, propped against the mantle. In his faded tee shirt and holey jeans, he didn’t look much like a world traveler. But the gleaming metal arm and long, shaggy hair were unmistakable. Steve looked back at Ellie. She was watching Bucky closely, eyes curious and a little cautious. Steve realized she knew who Bucky was, and had still invited him into her home. At that point he had to ask himself how many people at the party last night had recognized them, and simply let it pass.

            “He has,” he said, his voice pitched low and guarded. “He’s kind of been through a lot.”

            Ellie smiled sideways at him through her cigarette smoke. She took a long drag and nodded. “Yes,” she said gently. “I know he has.” She squeezed his arm, and called out cheerfully: “Okay everyone! Who wants artichoke dip?” She went straight to Bucky, leaned up, and kissed his cheek, then headed into the kitchen, giving her husband an arch look when he patted her bottom as she passed.

            Steve had an epiphany then, the sting of rum punch on his tongue and the smell of cigarettes and roast beef surrounding him: He couldn’t fix Bucky. Fortunately, he didn’t really have to. They were living in Sarasota now. Weird, warm, wet Sarasota, with its John Constable sunsets and tiny lizards, long-legged birds and palm trees, soft-sanded beaches, retired people and golf courses. There would be cards games and parties at the club house, swimming pools and fresh citrus and fish, and an unending stream of people who had lived, loved, and lost over the course of their lives, and come out of it ready to accept and understand them. There probably wasn’t a soul in Palacios Del Mar who hadn’t done something horrible, and had to learn how to live with it.

            Bucky and Jim were talking handicaps and five-irons, Cubans and bourbon. Jim may or may not have known that he was talking to the Winter Soldier about golf. It didn’t seem to matter. Their faces were bright and animated, the all-too-rare ease of instant camaraderie surrounding them. Somewhere in the house, Ellie had put on the stereo. Bing Crosby crooned “Silent Night.” Everything in Steve’s chest tightened, wound like a knot, then released suddenly.

            It was going to be okay.

            It was Bucky’s responsibility to figure out who he was and how he fit in. Bucky would have to parse his past and his wounds, work out retirement as best he could. Bucky would have to make friends, start projects, have hobbies, become a person again, put aside the artificial menace of the Winter Soldier and put on whatever perpetual summer accorded him. Steve had done what he could, dragging Bucky down to this strange place to work out his salvation, but he could only do so much. It was up to Bucky to take what Steve had offered him, and make something of it. He might fail. That was okay. It wouldn’t be Bucky’s fault, not really.

            Steve had no one to blame but himself for this, and he was actually okay with that.

 

 


End file.
